Rehabilitation
by holikimaela
Summary: Tony didn’t want to be applauded; he wanted to be alone, he wanted to play melancholy music, he wanted a stiff drink. Slightly Tony/Ziva; post-Truth and Consequences


**Rehabilitation**

Tony didn't want to be applauded; he wanted to be alone, he wanted to play melancholy music, he wanted a stiff drink. Instead, he had to sit there while people came up to him and said things like 'well done' and 'you okay?'. Tony nodded and moved them by turning to his paperwork.

There actually wasn't much – since the whole thing was so high-up, Vance was handling most of it. Tony made sure to make his report PC.

McGee kept making vague gestures at his computer, but only ever got a few taps into whatever it was he was doing before his gaze slid past his monitor and into middle distance. Tony fiddled with his Mighty Mouse stapler and looked at Ziva.

Her desk was bare, except for the standard issue stationary and technology. Tony had seen Gibbs palm her a knife on the plane, and he assumed that was what she was clenching so hard under the desk. He really hoped she didn't snap and kill them all.

Gibbs marched downstairs from debriefing. 'Mandatory comprehensive psychiatric evaluation.'

Tony lowered his head onto the cool surface of his desk. The last thing he felt like doing was giving some suit a blow-by-blow of his imprisonment experience. And then, when they asked him to recount the events preceding he would have to try to delve into the blur that had formed around him when he had been told Ziva was dead.

'Go home,' Gibbs said into the collective despondency.

Tony looked up as Ziva cleared her throat. 'Gibbs,' she said, as if she were struggling to his name. 'My cards and my documents were destroyed,' she tucked her hair behind her ear. 'I have copies in Israel, but I will need money tonight for a hotel.'

'You're not staying in a hotel,' Gibbs replied, to which Ziva tightened her cracked lips. 'You're staying with Tony tonight.'

Tony swung his gaze to Gibbs, clenching his jaw. He was used to Gibbs' mysterious ways, but perhaps _this_ was something he could have possibly run by him first? Gibbs strode through the bullpen and commandeered the elevator.

McGee looked between Tony and Ziva. 'Well…I'm going to go get some sleep. Goodnight, guys.'

Tony tried to think of a snippy remark, something about asking if he needed to be tucked in, but Ziva spoke before he could:

'Goodnight, Tim.' As McGee passed by her desk, Ziva stood up abruptly and leaned over to touch his shoulder. 'Thank you for all that you have done.'

McGee looked like he might reply, but then he just nodded, closed his hand over Ziva's for a moment, and then walked to the elevator. Ziva circled around to the front of her desk.

'It is not necessary for me to stay with you. If you will loan me money for a hotel, I can stay there.'

'No way, Gibbs will know,' Tony replied quickly. 'And then he'll head-slap me, and I don't need my head to hurt any more than it already does.'

He expected Ziva to argue, but it seemed she had lost the will to fight mentally too. The car trip home was mercifully short, no traffic jams, green lights all the way. Tony slid his key into the lock and turned, opening the door for Ziva to step through.

She walked forward and hesitated in the middle of the lounge room. Tony closed the door quietly behind him. Ziva moved slowly into the kitchen, bent carefully to retrieve a glass from his cupboards, and poured herself a glass of water, which she then proceeded to sip slowly.

Tony checked his pantry for something quick but moderately nutritious for them to eat. Really, all he wanted was to order take out, but Ziva had been there for months – she probably hadn't had a proper meal in all that time.

'I could cook,' she suggested from behind him. Tony stood up from where he was scouring the bottom of the pantry and looked at her.

'Are you sure you're not too tired?'

'I slept on the plane,' she replied, coming to stand beside him, facing into the pantry. She fished out a bag of rice and then crossed to the fridge.

Tony frowned at her as she pulled out some chicken and vegetables. She _had_ slept on the plane – Tony tried not to think about how she had woken twice, sitting bolt upright, her eyes wide and wild – but he still though she shouldn't be exerting herself. She wasn't wincing, though that probably didn't prove anything.

She managed to find a frypan and some sauces somewhere, and tossed together a chicken stir-fry. Tony knew it wasn't kosher, but she didn't seem bothered by it. Reflexively, he looked at her neck for her Star of David, but it was gone. Tony got some plates and helped her serve.

Dinner went well. Ziva flicked through television stations until she found a news channel. Tony understood – if he'd been isolated from the world for three months, he would want to know what was going on too. Thankfully it was nothing too gruesome, no lengthy reports about the Gaza war or any violent murders. They ate in silence, except for Ziva's infrequent requests for background knowledge on some of the stories.

When they were done, Ziva drank another glass of water. Doctor's orders. They'd gone to the hospital before NCIS; Tony and McGee were patched up pretty quickly, but they had kept Ziva for longer. Dehydration, fatigue, a sprained shoulder. A fractured eye socket that had healed on its own. The mental damage was definitely greater than the physical – trauma, PTSD, disassociation. Tony knew all about the last one – he kept automatically switching off, a habit from the past three months. _Stay present_, he commanded himself. Ziva was home now, and he had to look after her.

After the truth serum had worn off, Tony hadn't been able to look Ziva in the eye for the entire plane trip. Couldn't live with her, huh. It was the truth, but not one he'd really wanted to admit.

'So,' Tony announced – Ziva startled, almost unnoticeably, but not quite. 'I want to talk.'

Ziva shifted on the longue, as if she might shy away. 'I know that you want…an answer…but I can't-'

'Oh, no, no.' Tony chuckled, the sound sticking in his throat. He didn't really want to discuss his inability to get over either; especially not with the reaction she'd had. Then, to reassure her: 'And I don't want to force you to talk about what happened when –' Tony swallowed. '-when you were away, either. I just want to talk, y'know, about…anything else.'

Ziva grimaced, but seemed more relaxed now that she had his word that he wouldn't broach those things. 'My topics of conversation are limited.'

'That's fine, I meant _anything_,' Tony replied, falling back onto familiar ground. 'What's your favourite movie?'

Ziva looked at the carpet for a moment. Her eyes were still sunken. Tony wondered if he should send her to bed – but he needed to hear her speak, just for a little while, to know she was really there. Tony wondered if she had disappeared back into her memories, but then she lifted her chin and asked:

'In English or in Hebrew?'

'Both.'

Ziva nodded slowly. '_Aviyah's Summer_. It is a story of a little girl who lived in Israel at the beginning of its independence. Her mother survived the Holocaust, but could not look after her for a long time – the film is about the summer she returns home from the orphanages.'

Tony had never thought of Ziva as small before, but she was. Usually her tremendous force of will made her look larger than life, but now she was sitting beside him, curled up, as if by making herself smaller she could also make her pain smaller. God, he wanted to help her. He wanted to reach out to her, to hold her hand and feel her skin under his fingertips, warm and real. Instead, he smiled and asked:

'And your favourite Western film?'

She actually looked sheepish for a second, and Tony forgot himself and nudged her playfully. 'What is it?'

'_The Wizard of Oz_,' she said, bumping into his shoulder. Tony unclenched a little.

'Maybe you're not so tough after all,' Tony joked, and then heard what he said and froze. 'Shit, Ziva, I-'

'Don't,' she bit out. She looked at him, actually looked at him, not just at his face, but looked him in the eyes. 'I do not want people to treat me like I am broken, otherwise I will _stay_ broken.'

'Well, in that case,' Tony stood up and held his hand out to her. 'Come help me make desert.'

'What is it?' Ziva asked, taking his hand and getting to her feet.

Tony grinned. 'Well, by 'help me make' I actually meant come with me while I drive to the store'. So, anything you want.'

Ziva actually smiled – Tony felt as if he could float to his car.

_And_ she still hadn't let go of his hand.


End file.
